Sarah Mack Tam Lin

“First she let the black pass by,

And syne she let the brown;

But quickly she ran to the milk-white steed,

And pu’d the rider down.”

Whatever happens, Janet, whatever they turn me into, don’t let go.

Why are they going to turn you into animals?

I don’t know. It doesn’t matter, anyway. Just don’t let go.

Janet leapt from her perch on the ledge, some three feet above the faerie horse’s head, and slammed into Tam, who, up until that point, had been the image of calmness. That outer stoniness was what had kept him alive for so long—the faeries respected him for it. It helped that an unearthly stillness draped itself across the faeries like a cloak; no owls called, no wolves bayed. Even the animals were wary of that stillness. It made the deep green of the surrounding trees flicker with their power as if covered in moonlight, and the sharp sting of the bonfire’s smoke burn even more. Sometimes the stillness they radiated was a tense silence, designed solely to unnerve; other times the faeries twisted it into a peaceful silence to gain the trust of their human tithe.

There was only so much that false sense of calm could assist them, and only so much a man going to his death could exude. Janet wrapped her arms around his waist, and Tam yelled furiously at her, “You foolish girl!” as they tumbled to the hard-packed earth below. Curses and threats rang through the cold night air as the faeries realized their tithe was being stolen right out from under their noses. The temperature, already chilly from autumn’s kiss, dropped noticeably, and gooseflesh skittered across her arms. She knew, even as she shivered, that the sudden drop in temperature was nothing more than an illusion. It frightened her nonetheless.

“Don’t worry,” she told him, even as she gasped for the air that had been forced from her lungs in the fall, “I—” But he was suddenly gone, and a newt was desperately trying to wriggle free from her grasp.

She yelped and nearly dropped the thing, but recovered at the last second and tightened her grip, lest the esk—Tam—should escape. Her heart was pounding furiously, and she was more frightened of the faeries, who had formed a loose circle around them than she was of Tam, no matter what form he took. He’d promised not to hurt her.

His form shifted again, and the newt’s body writhed and became elongated, losing what puny limbs it had as its body thickened and became more muscular. She had to shift her grip several times while he changed, and each time he nearly escaped.

A frightened yell escaped from her mouth as the adder snapped its venomous fangs at her, and she jerked a hand back, away from its head. It thrashed wildly about, coiling its body around her arm and trying again to sink its teeth into her. “You’re a liar, Tam Lin!” she shouted at the snake, successfully grabbing hold of its neck, somewhere behind its head. It couldn’t escape, but had served its purpose nonetheless—Tam had said he wouldn’t hurt her, but as he’d inadvertently shown her, that had obviously been an empty reassurance. He had no control over his actions while he was an animal.

The faeries knew it, too, because as soon as she felt she had a good enough hold on the snake that she could relax and breathe again, it began to morph. Its body grew bulky and furry; its head grew huge and round.

Still, she held on, clutching the bear around the neck and riding on its back. Tam’s scent changed from the dry heat of a desert’s summer to the spring’s clear mountain air, surrounded by oak trees and berry bushes.

She caught a glimpse of a woman in the circle around them—she was tall and poised, with an exotic and unearthly beauty. Janet knew, without even a second glance, that she was the woman who’d kept Tam imprisoned in the land of the fey for the last seven years. She was their Faerie Queen.

They’re going to turn me into some nasty things, Janet. But you can’t let go of me, no matter what.

She squeezed her eyes shut, sobbing into the thick brown fur, “You said you wouldn’t hurt me!” And she’d believed him, but it had turned out to be a barren promise. Did he mean to lie? The bear snarled and dropped onto all fours, and another desperate sob escaped her throat, even as she tightened her grip on his furry neck. The smell of rivers in the springtime permeated her nose. Did he think that she wouldn’t have come to save him if she thought he would hurt her?

The bear roared and shook itself vigorously, much like she’d seen her father’s hunting dogs do after climbing out of the lake, and she wept and held on for dear life. Skimpy tears escaped through the corner of her eyes as soon as they came into being, rolling down the sides of her face and making her cheeks itch.

“You can let go at any time, Janet,” a woman’s voice whispered in her ear. It was warm and soothing, and reminded her of summer days spent on the lake, before her mother died. Another sob escaped her and she squeezed her eyes shut against the faeries’ tricks, but she could not close her ears. “All you have to do is let him go, and it will be all over.”

I’ll do you no harm, Janet.

“No,” she shook her head and her brow creased as she squeezed her eyes shut even tighter. “No, Lady, it won’t be over if I let go, because then you’ll have us both.”

The warmth was gone when the faerie queen spoke again, replaced by the icy air of the winter that was closing in on them all. When the sun rose in just a few hours, it would be All Saint’s Day, and with it would come the new frost. “Suit yourself, mortal.”

Tam began to change again. “I will, thank you,” Janet whispered, but she knew the faeries heard.

Tam began to shrink rapidly, and she grimaced when the quick descent made the bottom of her stomach drop out. His fur disappeared in clumps, either falling out or sinking back into his skin. He turned from a dark brown to iron black, stopped breathing, and grew hard as metal.

“Humans do not hate iron as we do.” The faerie queen was whispering in her ear again, without moving an inch. “But even you will hate it after this. Experience iron as we do, dear mortal.”

The split second before the pain began, Janet realized what the faerie intended. And suddenly there was a searing pain where she touched the iron poker that was Tam. Someone was screaming, a high and broken sound, and when she looked down to find that the poker was red hot, she realized it was herself.

She was still lying on it, so the searing heat engulfed not only her hands, but ran down her chest from her heart to her abdomen. She rolled over onto her back, still screaming and sobbing wordlessly, and fought the instinctual urge to throw it away from herself and end the pain. But she couldn’t, she couldn’t; he was going to slip through her fingers, her hands were going to let him go of their own accord, she couldn’t help it—

She rolled to her feet and threw herself forward, into the ring of the faeries. They parted before her like water and she stumbled through the loose ring, uncaring as to why they let her through without a fight. Perhaps it was the iron, or perhaps the ring they had created had merely been a deterrence with no real threat behind it. Power, yes, but no threats.

But she didn’t care. All she knew was that there was a stream nearby. She’d passed by it earlier that same night.

She stumbled blindly forward, still feeling every second of that incredible pain. And then she stumbled and fell face first into the blessedly icy stream. She coughed, choked, and pulled her face out, panting exhaustedly.

Tam lay beneath her, as naked as the day he was born. His eyes were closed and he looked every bit as exhausted as she felt.

“Oh, Tam,” she murmured, fighting back tears. It had been a very long and uncertain night.

He stirred, his eyes fluttering open slowly, and she smiled wearily at him and pulled him up, to his feet, and draped her green cloak about his shoulders. He had to lean on her to remain standing. “How are you?” he rasped, “Are you all right?”

She didn’t glance at her hands or draw attention to them. They would heal, given time. “I’m all right, I suppose. Are you?”

“Just peachy,” he croaked, “Though I could do with a long nap.” She smiled, and a small chuckle escaped her lips. He smiled as well. “Well, you’re laughing. I suppose that means you’ve either taken a blow to the head, or you’re none the worse for wear.”

“I must have been dropped on my head as a child,” she teased, “to fight for someone so scrawny as you.”

He puffed up as best he could without falling over. “I resent that, you know.”

“But you’ll live,” she said, giving him a peck on the cheek.

“And in the mortal world, too,” he agreed, sobering. “Janet, what you did back there—”

She smiled wryly. “Think nothing of it.”